


Forgive us our trespasses

by colorcoded



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Choking, Coerced incest, Half-Sibling Incest, Loss of Faith, M/M, Partial Mind Control, Unaroused Victim, everything is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorcoded/pseuds/colorcoded
Summary: The battle between Ramza and Zalbag, except with more forced incest and more flashbacks from Zalbag's point of view.
Relationships: Ramza Beoulve/Zalbaag Beoulve
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2019





	Forgive us our trespasses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathCorporal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathCorporal/gifts).



He cannot see. He tries to lift a hand to wave it in front of his face, but he can see no motion, nor can he be sure that he is truly moving his limb at all. But he can hear, a loud cacophony of unpleasant, evil words reverberating loudly in his head, and something much more distant, but familiar enough and pleasant enough that Zalbag tries to focus on it, to hear the words.

He knows that voice.

"Ramza? Is that you?"

He tries to recall when last he spoke to Ramza, and a sharp pain lances throughout his entire skull. Dycedarg—a confrontation—Ramza was there... A goat-like creature with eyes like sunken pits—then blackness... then pain.

_Zalbag wakes up surrounded by light. Is he dead? Is this the afterlife?_

_"Neither, not quite," says a voice with an amused chuckle. "I pity you, sent here by your own brother. No doubt he intended to use you if he survived, but it seems that responsibility falls to me."_

_"Who...?"_

_The voice does not answer this question._

_At the corner of Zalbag's vision, he sees creatures, monsters like those from stories meant to frighten children._

_"You are like them—meant to serve the Lucavi. Meant to obey."_

When the pain and the memories subside, he can see, a little. He has a narrow cone of vision, just enough to see his own hands, gripped around the hilt of his sword, striking, slashing, even performing techniques that took him years to master. Is that him? Are these his own actions?

And he can still hear the words hissing loudly in his head. _Kill the boy. Break him. Violate his flesh._

Trying to ignore the words, he manages to force out a warning, "Ramza... run! Flee now, or I may... kill you..."

They are the last words that come out of Zalbag's throat; his voice fails him. He cannot make the muscles move anymore, not even to swallow or breathe. He can see more now, the candles and thick velvet carpet of a mausoleum. He can blink. He can see Ramza's face, and his allies beside him, blood running down some of their faces, clutching at wounds torn by long, sharp claws.

One thrusts the point of a sword straight into Zalbag's abdomen. He looks down and sees it there, punching through skin and muscle, but no blood flows from the wound. He grabs the sword by its blade and pulls it out, glances at the blade casually before flipping the sword around and returning it forcefully to its original wielder.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the movement of demons, horned and winged creatures with those empty, empty eyes...

Zalbag winces at the memory of those eyes boring through him as he screamed in agony. When was that? Ages ago? Or is it the last thing he remembers? Whenever it was, he is sure that they were his torturers, but now they seem to be his slaves. They turn to him expectantly, awaiting his orders. With a thought, he commands them to kill off the rest of the nameless, unimportant soldiers who fight at Ramza's side. He commands them to hold Ramza's arms down on the tile. He watches impassively as they carry out his orders. As he waits, he slowly begins to recall more of the events that led to him being here...

_In that bleak whiteness, Zalbag soon learns to not resist. Orders creep into his mind, to move this way and that, every muscle in his body, even his voice, under the control of another. If it were only the direct control of muscles that had been ceded, if Zalbag were no more than a mindless puppet, that would have been preferable to the situation in which he now finds himself. But he is even worse than a mindless puppet, because he retains his mind. When ordered to, he can recall everything in his power to recall—the names of men and women he had commanded or fought alongside, childhood memories, even his favorite color. Any mental resistance, any refusal to relinquish his body or mind, is met with flashes of white-hot pain. If he resists long enough, his whole body starts to tremble violently; his vision goes white and the world seems to spin._

_"I would not do that if I were you," the voice advises, as Zalbag feels his body and his resistance collapse. He falls to the ground—perhaps, if a ground exists—and lays there in convulsions._

_When his body stills, the probing continues. When he is asked to relate the most sinful thoughts he has had or actions he has taken, he initially balks, but he is too spent to put up more than a token resistance. He soon finds himself relating his shames clinically, unemotionally, to his unseen commander as if to a confessor, in some kind of perverse take on the religious ritual._

_"How appropriate that you should think of confessors," the voice says, "given that the high confessor himself has played you and your liege for a fool, and helped us Lucavi return to the world."_

_"Lies!" Zalbag spits out, instinctively._

_"Believe what you wish," the voice says in a disinterested tone. "But you have given us so much information; perhaps I should return the favor."_

_Images enter his mind, fragments of conversations with the high confessor, templars, Duke Goltanna, Dycedarg... images of strange gemstones and the nature of them... the teal-colored stone that his brother had been given, that he made covenant with even as he died. Whether the memories he has been given are true or not, Zalbag has the uncomfortable feeling that he now understands the world better, that the new information sheds light on everything else that has happened._

_Like what has happened to him._

_"How do you like it?" the voice says. "The reward for your years of devotion, your lifetime of belief? Your brother, the high confessor, even St. Ajora—they were all nothing more than liars and schemers who would treat with demons for power. And why should they not be? There is no reward in life for virtue; no existence after life except death. Those who stubbornly cling to the belief that there must be something more to the world, that the world must have some order, some benevolent overseer—how easily they become the pawns of those who see the world for what it is. The faith you hold so dear... Tell me true: did it have any meaning?"_

_He doesn't know whether it is a result of his altered state of being or his own misgivings but he cannot answer._

Ramza is speaking again, attempting to reach out to him.

"Brother!" he is saying. "Please, come to your senses!"

But there is nothing to do except keep going. He cannot rest until his task is complete. As he commanded, Ramza's companions are gone, and demons hold his arms to the floor.

Zalbag kneels at Ramza's side, grabs his brother's throat just under his chin, and uses thumb and finger to turn his brother's face to the left and then to the right. Ramza's face seems strangely close, individual eyelashes, even the striations in his brown eyes, visible. And yet Zalbag's own hand seems strangely far away, detached from his body. It tightens its grip around Ramza's throat, and the young man winces at the pain, struggles wildly but ineffectually against the grasp of the demons that hold his limbs, before gradually losing the energy to struggle any more and falling unconscious.

The restful expression heightens Ramza's youthful look. He was always a gentle-natured boy, very wide-eyed and idealistic and naïve about the world. In unconsciousness, his head falls to the side, exposing the curve of his neck invitingly. Zalbag leans down and holds his mouth close to the exposed skin. Normally, he would be sure that his breath would trace along the skin but now he does not even know whether he still breathes. He still has teeth, though, and they work like any other's, piercing skin and drawing blood.

Ramza jerks awake again at the pain. Zalbag still has his tongue, too, though it is drier than normal. Driven by some instinct, he laps at the blood that drips from the wound on Ramza's neck. Though so many of his senses seem dulled and unclear—sensations of motion, touch, pain, and at times sight—the taste of blood is sharp and clear, the metallic scent invading all parts of his mind. It is strangely nourishing, enervating. Ramza squeezes his eyes shut, wincing at the pain and the sensation of Zalbag's tongue on his skin.

"Brother..." is all Ramza says in a quiet, hoarse voice. 

Zalbag sits up and commands the demons at his sides. Their claws slice apart leather straps, tear long gashes in cloth, open cuts. _Do not kill him,_ Zalbag tells them. _Not yet._ With Ramza's clothing in shambles, it's easy enough to reach underneath and press a hand—bare, when did he remove his padded gauntlets?—against Ramza's member. The young man shudders.

He can hardly feel his limbs, but he can see Ramza's eyes widen in shock as a finger shoves itself into his anus, stretching the ring of muscle, forcing it to open. A second finger soon follows. Zalbag's hand presses in and out, never pausing or hesitating. Humiliation fills Ramza's face at the repeated penetration, but he otherwise bears the violation with composure, no longer even expending energy struggling against the heavy limbs that hold him down.

By the time Zalbag's other hand undoes the laces on the front of his breeches and frees his own member, Zalbag knows what is next. No—he has known from the start that this is what he must do. The only surprise is that he is apparently already fully erect, a disconcerting realization as he had received no indication of it, no tightening of the muscles low in the abdomen, no feeling of pressure or tightness against the constraints of his trousers. He withdraws his fingers and his cock takes their place, positioned at the tight opening.

"Zalbag, fight it!" Ramza implores, at the same time that Zalbag inwardly begs Ramza to not fight it. It will be over sooner and less painfully...

He shoves his member in by force, inch by inch, eliciting a sharp hiss from Ramza. He can see Ramza trying to mitigate the pain, breathing calmly and relaxing his muscles, easing his body into accepting the invasion.

Zalbag wishes he could be gentler but he cannot wait. He feels a thirst in his throat, in his bones, for peace, for a respite from the curse that binds him to his master's bidding, even knowing there will only be more orders in the future, more hunger. He pulls out partially, then slams back in, out and in, eager to build up a faster pace, needing more. So this is what the Lucavi would have him do, he thinks dimly as he watches as he defiles his own body and Ramza's all at once.

Though he has no sensation, he can tell the fit is tight, the penetration too deep, and the chafing from the friction painful. He is glad he cannot feel it. But he can still see, and the sight of his own cock burying itself inside his own brother, the relentless grinding of his hips, thrusting with mindless hunger, is abhorrent to him. Gradually, the edges of his vision fade to darkness, and his narrow window into the world shrinks even more.

"Zalbag...?"

The sound of his name and the tone of uncertainty and awe in the speaker's voice bring him back to the present. The world returns to its former brightness and he can see with perfect clarity Ramza's face, the stunned stare, and the drop of water splashed across one cheek. A teardrop, he realizes. Not Ramza's.

He and Ramza fully understand the meaning at the same time.

"Zalbag—you're in there—I knew it! Speak to me! I'll heal you, I swear it."

 _No, no,_ Zalbag thinks, his lead heart sinking deeper in his chest. Resistance is bad enough; hope is even worse.

Ramza is talking quickly now, though, saying that they do not need to fight, that they will both make it out of this alive, that he swears that he will find a way to undo whatever it is that has been done to Zalbag, no matter how long it takes.

Zalbag's body is still thrusting into Ramza, mindless, automatic. Even still, Ramza's hand reaches out to touch his face. Zalbag wishes he could feel it. "I'm all right," Ramza says, preternaturally calm even as his body is rocked by the force of Zalbag's thrusts. "You're still—here. That's all—that matters."

The words and the hope contained in them are intoxicating, but somewhere in his heart, Zalbag knows the truth: it is too late, far too late, for undoing what has happened to him. Damned by one brother, engaging in atrocities against the other as little more than some dark being's slave—what is left to save?

One thing is certain, though: this is the last conversation he will ever have with Ramza or anyone he loves again. The realization makes him want to savor the moment, to drag it out as long as he can. It may be wrong, twisted to want it to last longer, but Zalbag knows what he has been commanded to do—what he _must_ do, next—and there is so little time. But here again, his body betrays him: he comes, his seed slicking the length of his cock, and coating the rim of Ramza's entrance. The orgasm he _does_ feel, though mainly in his head, a sense of desperate urgency followed by a light-headed delirious feeling of relief that quickly fades.

Already, he can see his hand reaching for his sword. There is not much time. Ramza was wrong to hope to save him, but he was not wrong that there has been an opening, that the control of the Lucavi over him has loosened somehow. The demons at his side no longer hold Ramza's arms down, or his brother would not have been able to touch his face. He hopes that the demons will continue as they are now, passively observing with their blank eyes.

The Lucavi have ordained that only one of he and Ramza may make it out of this confrontation alive. Zalbag must ensure it will be Ramza. With a burst of effort, he grips his sword and jerks the muscle of his arm as suddenly and forcefully as he can. The sword goes flying, skidding across stone. It buys him some time. The exertion has also won him the use of his voice again. "Forgive me, Ramza," he croaks out. "I have... caused you pain."

"It's all right. I'm all right."

"You must... save Alma."

"I will," Ramza says immediately, but the relief that had come over his face begins to edge back into worry.

"Good," he says, then, "Good...bye." The words are hard to say because so much of his mind is focused on resisting the urge to retrieve his sword, or if not that, to reach out to kill Ramza with bare hands. Pain explodes in his head at the denial of these urges, his hands, his whole body, every cell in his body shaking with a violent desperation. _"I would not do that if I were you,"_ the voice had said. Zalbag just hopes he is right, that the only way to punish continued disobedience, when pain is no longer deterrance enough, is through death. He is no longer afraid of death, nor, he thinks, of being the architect of his own death. A pressure builds up within him, ready to explode.

The last thing he hears is Ramza's strangled cry.


End file.
